


Earthbound

by Lizarin (Song)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5 + 1, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Drug Use, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Overdosing, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Song/pseuds/Lizarin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Sherlock tried to fly, and one time he succeeded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Earthbound

_Fledging_  
  
Mycroft watches his little brother flap his wings and expects him to take off.  
  
But he doesn't.  
  
And Mycroft doesn't understand.  
  
Sherlock should be able to fly. Mycroft might not be an expert, but he knows all the movements are right. He may be a little young sure, but for a child to fledge at this age was not unheard of and Holmes' were always either the first or best- or _both_ \- at almost every milestone.  
  
Despite his reassurance to his little brother, Mycroft can't shake the feeling that something is very, very wrong.  
  
  
 _School_  
  
Sherlock's sent home with a note to his parents.  
  
Father is, as always, conveniently absent. Mummy scolds him for picking fights. She then tells him that none of this would happen if he would just grow up and fly already. That he's not trying hard enough.  
  
Mycroft carefully takes Sherlock aside after the 'gentle' admonishment ends and explains to him that its not his fault. He explains some people are idiots and don't accept what they can't understand.  
  
He holds his little brother close, auburn wings wrapping and shielding the two. Sherlock doesn't bother to fight against the tears because Mycroft is _safe_ , safe unlike the boys at school, and the teachers who try and fail to coach him, and _safe_ like Mummy is not.  
  
  
 _Cocaine_  
  
The dealer promised him he'd feel like he was flying higher than he'd ever done before.  
  
Sherlock says nothing.  
  
After paying the dealer - a bedraggled mousy looking man aged by chronic drug abuse- Sherlock returns to his run down flat at Montegue Street and prepares the solution. He calculates based on weight and purity of which he'd ascertained shortly after purchase that a 7% solution would create the maximum high whilst keeping him from overdose.  
  
Sherlock presses the needle into the crook of his arm. It slides in with diminutive discomfort, hand shaking slightly with anticipation he thrusts down the plunger.  
  
As the drug passes through the blood brain barrier Sherlock relaxes into the chemical induced bliss.  
  
His 7% solution wasn't flying, but it was as close as he would ever come.  
  
  
 _Overdose_  
  
Sherlock's not sure what's wrong. He'd used the same solution as he always had. Same dealer, same supplier. Same _everything_. And the thought that _he_ miscalculated is simply absurd. But he knows as soon as the high hits _knows_ in the deepest part of himself  that something is indeed, very wrong.  
  
Some indeterminate amount of time later a crash sounds from outside the room.  
  
A rough pair of fingers press against his carotid but he can't find it in himself to care.  
  
"Christ, _We've got a live one!_ " The yarder shouts, harshly rolling him onto his side.  A wave of nausea hits and he retches but only bile dribbles from the side of his mouth.  
  
"Easy, easy," the man whispers placing a calming hand on the back of his neck as his gut recoils again. Sherlock begins to shiver violently and tears start to roll down his emaciated cheeks. "Get a bus in here!" The man yells over his shoulder.  
  
Before passing out completely he briefly opens his eyes to see an older man with prematurely greying hair and even greyer wings worriedly looking down on him.  
  
Sherlock flatlines to sounds he can't make out.  
  
When the garbled voices gain clarity he tries to sit up only to be pushed back down to what he now recognizes as a gurney. "No, no..." he mumbles incoherently. "I was flying... please, I was flying..." he repeats as blissful unconsciousness embraces him.  
  
  
 _Prey_  
  
The criminal bolts past him and launches himself into the sky. He has the wings of a swift. Even if Sherlock had been able, his own raven wings would be no match.  
  
"Useless freak!" Donavan spits at him as she hurtles past, burnt umber wings flaring up behind her and looming over her figure agressively as she takes flight.  
  
Sherlock's own coal colored wings shuffle awkwardly behind him as he watches her pursuit.  
  
He can't decide if he's a freak because he can't fly, or because he couldn't stop the man who shot Lestrade as he flew away.  
  
  
 _John_  
  
"It's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?"  
  
Sherlock can't help but look at John one last time, shock and horror obvious in everything from expression on his face to the trembling of the phone in his hand.  
  
He jumps.  
  
And for the first time in his life, Sherlock felt like he was really flying.  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Please review!


End file.
